


You, In my Body

by ghettoassenglishman



Series: AU's FOR YOU [7]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bodyswap, Fluff I guess, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:01:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3765673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"With the door locked shut greets his reflection in the mirror. </p><p> Not his, but Ian fucking Gallagher's reflection." </p><p>---- "If you are still taking prompts, how about a Ian and Mickey body swap fic? Or maybe the 'french mistake' actors POV" - From the lovely Tajn! - I decided to go down the body swap route -</p>
            </blockquote>





	You, In my Body

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tajn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tajn/gifts).



> So I went with the body swap fic - tell me what you thought? Thankyou for this btw! (I will be writing another one for you, in which I will do Ian's point of view)
> 
> Errors - will be fixed! 
> 
> PLUS SOMEONE ON TUMBLR MESSAGED ME ABOUT BEING MY BETA AND I JUST WANTED TO KNOW WHO THAT WAS SO I CAN MESSAGE THEM BACK ABOUT IT?? SO IF YOU ARE THAT PERSON PLEASE MESSAGE ME ON EITHER HERE OR ON MY TUMBLR WITHOUT BEING ON ANON BECAUSE I'D LOVE TO HAVE SOMEONE PROOF READ MY WORK BEFORE POSTING.
> 
> Prompt me if you want : im-an-angel-y0u-ass.tumblr.com (but be patient and your prompts shall be done!)

 

Mickey fucking hated field trips. Like really fucking hated them. There were no words to describe how much he wanted to rip his own eyeballs out and feed them to a pack of wolves, because of this field trip. Especially when he had to leave his warm-ass, fortress of a bed just to look at some borderline, shit sculptures that he could easily shoot down with a fire-arm. (Not that it would make a difference to the quality of their appearance anyway.) A gun was fully-loaded in his bag – you've got to think of safety first, right, even in an open gallery.

 

The teacher was boring as fuck, rabbiting on about the dates and dumb-ass names of artists, who Mickey really didn't give a fuck about – they didn't change his life, paint him a pretty picture, hell, they didn't even _inspire_ him, so why does he have to stand and gaze at it.  

 

They never painted something for him? Fuckers.

 

Mickey eyed the place up; Good set of paintings, couple of old statues – he could definitely make a few bob out of it. He could _definitely_ get something out of the gold-looking thing in the middle of the room. Was it a calf? Wait, was that a fucking _dick?_

 

“Is that a dick?” Mickey hears from behind him. To his luck its the annoying fucker that sits behind him in class. Ian fucking Gallagher. The kid that wouldn't shut up and apparently wouldn't fuck off.

 

This kid better feel grateful Mickey hadn't turned and launched a fist in his face – Now that would have been a show. Something to put up in the shitty-ass gallery.

 

Mickey instinctively rolls his shoulders, sniffing up intimidatingly. “Fuck off before I rip your tongue out of your head.”

 

“Chill out, dude.”Ian surrenders, hands up in the air. The smirk on his face is really irritating and Mickey would love to smack it off.

 

Gallery's didn't have policies for punching people in the face, did they?

 

“That how you speak to all of your friends?” The fuckhead asks.

 

“I don't have friends.” Mickey simply puts it out there. Friends sucked ass and just scrounged for drugs or money and he didn't have time for that shit. And he didn't have time for Ian Gallagher's shit.

 

Ian stands at his side, pretending to be interested at the dick-shaped piece of gold art. “We've all got a friend. I mean, _even_ Mickey Milkovich should have a friend.” Fearless as Ian's voice sounded, this kid was asking for a beat down and at this point Mickey wasn't questioning it.

 

Gritting his teeth, Mickey swears to himself that he wasn't getting arrested for a minor fist fight, not now he only had a couple more days until the end of his probation. “I don't need fucking friends.”

 

Ian nods, like he knows him or something, and its really fucking annoying. “Yeah, but friends that _fuck,_ that's something.” The redhead crosses his arms, his flexing, exposed muscles in direct eyesight for Mickey to drool over.

 

As annoying as the fucker was, Ian Gallagher was sure a piece of eye candy.

 

Mickey's eyes dart to the side – this kid really didn't know who he was talking to – he consciously licks his lips, cracking the stupid,hard face he tried to pull. There was something about Ian that made his face go all funny.

 

“Fuck off, Gallagher. You want someone to fuck why don't you creep on that teacher over there.” He nods his head in the direction of the cargo-wearing fucker who brought them to this torture. “Heard you liked the elderly so hop on it.”

 

Mickey shoves at Ian's shoulder. The kid looked shocked more than anything. Probably because he wasn't punching him out for being a fa- _gay_ person. Mandy would kick his ass if she heard him saying that. Mickey wasn't scared of Ian, fuck no, he was just scared of how open the kid was, how everyone knew he was fucking gay and he literally didn't bat an eyelid at the assumptions.

 

“You're classed as my elder, right?” The redhead winked, biting his bottom lip.

 

Mickey was a couple of years older than him, but this fuck wasn't getting on him and that was it. No matter how much Ian's top tightened around his muscles and how his lips looked plump enough to wrap around his cock.

 

Mickey Milkovich was not a bitch.

 

“I said fuck off.” Mickey warns, watching as the redhead sped off into a crowd of people – he sure loved to watch that kid leave, especially with an ass like that.

 

 

                                                                                                                                  ------------------------------------------------

 

Mickey was bored out of his fucking mind, he was still stood at the dick statue, (that was starting to look like a tormented frog because he'd been looking at it for that long) Pulling out his phone, he checks around the place one more time. It was perfect; millions of pounds stuffed into one room. He and his brothers could easily rob the place; low security, easy access, vulnerable staff. It could work.

 

“Milkovich, is that text more educational than my class.” The teacher calls him out. Mickey's appearance was never frequent in school, so he doesn't know the old fucks name. All he did know was that the guy had a thing for feeling up freshmans. Mickey really needed to find out that guys name.

 

For beating up purposes.

 

Mickey lifts his head a little too smugly, leaning against the information board behind him. He calls over, the class watching awkwardly, waiting for a reaction. “You could say that.”

 

“How about I read it out, let the class know some more factual information?” The teacher nears him, hand face up ready for Mickey to hand him the phone. The old fuck had another thing coming.

 

“Fuck off.” Mickey spits into a mutter. “That's against my privacy, _sir._ You want my phone expect my dad to roll up in this joint. He'll teach you all something educational, his fists are quite good for that.” The intimidation tactic always worked.

 

Mickey's dad wasn't the most pleasant person in Southside to come across and neither was Mickey.

 

Gladly, the teacher knew who Mickey was referring to and coiled back. “Right.” He points to Mickey. “Milkovich, Gallagher, team up _now.”_ The direction of his hand grazes over to Ian, who's too engrossed with an enlightened conversation to care.

 

Mickey groans, his head falling back dramatically. God, he needed a cigarette. Anyone but him. Fucking Clive the spit sprayer would have been better than that obnoxious fuck.

 

“So...” Ian slowly creeps up on him as the crowd around him departs, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “We're a team and we are very interested in this dick-shaped thing that is painted gold. How exhilarating.” The sarcastic tone was what rivalled Mickey up the most, because he knew the kid was trying to purposely piss him off.

 

“The only thing that's going to be fucking exhilarating is my foot rammed down your throat.” Mickey's threatens, shooting Ian an empty look. Really, he couldn't be dealing with this shit, not when his fingers were still aching from beating the shit out of the dumb-fucks who didn't pay up at collections.

 

“My throat can take a lot of things-”

 

Mickey snorts, “I bet it fucking can-”

 

The redhead frowns, then carries on narrowly. “ _But,_ I really don't think your foot could fit in there. Never-mind the fact you'd have to get, like, some stool to boost you up because you're so-”

 

Mickey grabs at the collar of Ian's shirt forcefully, his nose flaring. “You really want to finish that fucking sentence?”

 

Ian doesn't look scared at all and even though Mickey's cock was starting to twitch in his now-tight pants, he's really starting to fucking hate this kid.

 

Ian shrugs, grabbing at Mickey's wrist, “Well, I'm going to have to. Otherwise my sentence isn't going to make logical sense.” He drops Mickey's arm, tilting his head to the left, holding that lob-sided smile.

 

Stupid fucking Ian and his bullshit fucking insight.

 

“Well..-” Mickey stutters trying to think of a come-back without looking into the deep hazel eyes before him. “You don't make logical fucking sense.” Shit. _Did he just say that? Like really?_

 

The redhead scoffs, rubbing at the back of his neck, amused. “You better clean up your come-backs before they bite you on the ass, Mickey. You're a little slow, aren't you?” The little shit laughs, he fucking laughs and Mickey doesn't know whether to kiss that shit off or punch it off.

 

“Shut the fuck up before I kick your weak ass.” Mickey bites back, catching Ian smirk in the corner of his eye. Seriously, this fucking statue was getting worse every time he laid eyes on it.

 

Fuck Ian for being better looking than that stupid fucking sculpture.

 

Fuck Mickey for _wanting_ to do that.

 

Ian hums appreciatively, it was more of a mock than a merry invite. “Being pounded by Mickey Milkovich, _oh,_ I getting all hot just thinking about it.” The redhead pretends to shiver, his smug look nothing more than a shadow in the distance.

 

Well, Mickey wished it was.

 

Clenching his fist, Mickey really does tell himself not to pounce on the guy and just break his face a little. Only a little low, maybe cracking one bone. “ _God.”_ Mickey whines, rubbing a frustrated hand over his face. “You're so fucking annoying, just fuck off would you?”

 

“The First rule to teamwork.” Ian coughs, raising his index finger. “We don't talk about the team” He winks at Mickey. “Second rule to teamwork is, we _really_ don't talk about the team.” _Was this kid seriously quoting fight club?_ “Third rule to teamwork _is-_ you know what it is?” Ian points his finger towards Mickey, grinning wildly.

 

“I'll break your fucking fingers off.” Mickey raises his eyebrows as-well as his voice.

 

Rolling his eyes, Ian retreats his finger. “I need these, I have you know. No, the third rule to team work is that we _always_ stick together, even when the other person is being an utter asshole.” He shakes his shoulders, in motion with his hands, to signify to Mickey that he really didn't give a fuck.

 

To be honest, neither did Mickey.

 

“Hey, I think I know the fourth.” Mickey squints his eyes, tapping at his chin almost snobbishly. “It goes like this-” That was the point where Mickey's hand collided with Ian's face, his ring flying off in the process. The redhead nudged backwards, his legs nearly buckling underneath him, before he dropped completely.

 

Well, Ian Gallagher sure looked good down on his knees.

 

Ian wasn't slow to retaliate, he gripped at Mickey's legs pushing all his strength to knock him to the ground. Mickey's legs gave way and he knocked his head against the wooden floor. Ian straddles him, his punches hitting hard against the smaller boys jaw. Blood was starting to appear and yet Mickey didn't stop to try clean it up off his own white shirt.

 

He owned one fucking white shirt and _Ian_ fucking Gallagher ruined it.

 

Mickey rolled them over, his knee sticking into Ian's chest to stop him from wriggling from beneath him. Before his fist could land a punch against Ian's already-swelling face, a hand grabs onto his fist and pushes him off.

 

“Milkovich, Gallagher.” It was the old fuck again. “What the hell are you doing, you do know you are meant to representing the school here. We don't want our reputation to be ruined by a couple of – of, _thugs.”_ Yet again, a crowd surrounded them and Mickey wasn't afraid to sort them out aswell.

 

Ian leaps from the ground, his heavy breathing matching Mickey's. “Sir, we didn't-”

 

“Fucking hell, Gallagher, grow some balls. This old fuck just wants to perv on your ass until the day is over.” He shoves at Ian again, liking the feel of his body against his fingertips (but no-one had to know that, did they?) “Fuck you.” He jabs a finger into the redheads chest.

 

“Fuck you.” Mickey shouts to the crowd around them, his gaze moves intentionally to the teacher. “And _especially_ fuck you.” He storms towards the exit, not missing the strange feeling of nausea fleeing through his body. The wave lasted over a couple of seconds, nearly drowning him out, he swore he saw Ian feel it too, but fuck that kid.

 

Some-where, he wished he fucking would.

 

 

                                                                                                                              ----------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

Mickey wakes up to an alarm. _Wait, since when did he have a fucking alarm?_ He uses his hand to smack the shit out of it, shutting it up until the beeping stopped. The sheets smell different, _he_ smelt different, the whole feeling around him wasn't the same. _God, too much fucking coke last night._ He goes to turn against his bed when he falls straight onto his back, landing on a pile of clothes, a couple of shoes, and wait – _was that a bat?_ A bit fucking weak for a Milkovich.

 

“Nice one, man. Is that the sort of clumsiness you want to bring to the Army?” Its a voice. Mickey knew that voice. Lip fucking Gallagher. _What the fuck was Lip Gallagher doing in his room?_ The voice nears, as Mickey's eyes start to adjust, Lips hand lands on his shoulder.

 

Mickey grabs at his wrist. “You fucking touch me again I'll gut your fucking stomach.” His eyes latch onto his pale arm, he was pale but not _that_ fucking pale. Is that freckles too? _Since when did he have fucking freckles?_

 

“Like your ass could beat me in a fight.” Lip slaps the top of his head, pulling on a shirt as he left through the open door.

 

Mickey takes his chance to look around the room, his body still plastered to the floor. It's a small room, cluttered, but had everything you needed in it. Across from him sat a little kid – a dark-skinned little kid – who was intensely staring at him and _fuck_ wasn't it creepy. Then there was a bunk bed, the covers sprawled against the sheets. This was definitely not Mickey's room. A poster falls beside him, leaning over the unfamiliar bed, his eyes latch onto a photograph of a Soldier.

 

Yep. This was definitely not his fucking room.

 

“Hey, Ian.” Another voice calls out. Mickey hasn't recognized the kid was talking to him, but he remembers that name. “You seen my knife, I lost it and I need it to fight that big fucker on the corner.” The small, scrawny kid walks through, leaning over him as he lifted the mattress.

 

“What?” Mickey tries to work it all out. First; where the hell was he? Second; why the fuck did this kid just call him Ian. Third; why the fuck was the kid bringing a knife to school when it _should_ be a gun. Protection and all that.

 

The kid jumps with victory, nearly kicking Mickey in the chin. “It's okay, I've found it.” He slips the knife into his bag-pack, slapping Mickey's arm. “Fiona didn't come home last night, can you check up where she could be, she's still on probation.”

 

All Mickey can do is nod. This kid thought he was someone else – why wasn't he running for the hills screaming “Mickey Milkovich was in my house.” As the kid left the room, it suddenly clicked in his head. Lip Gallagher... _Ian_ fucking Gallagher.

 

How the fuck did this happen.

 

Standing up, he feels the ground move further away, like his legs had extended a couple of inches over night – maybe a foot. Everything seems higher, he can _finally_ see things from a higher level. Maybe coke had its advantages?

 

He looks down at his feet – they were bonier than he had remembered. (Not that he looked at his feet like it was a tradition.) All he knew, they _weren't_ his. This room wasn't his. These pale arms weren't his. This _smell_ wasn't his and he had no idea how that could be.

 

Through the racket downstairs – seriously, how many people even lived there – he finally finds the bathroom. Its empty and for once he's fucking thankful for that. With the door locked shut greets his reflection in the mirror.

 

Not his, but Ian fucking Gallagher's reflection.

 

Ginger hair. That's the first thing he sees. That and the hundreds and thousands of freckles splatted against his chest. A toned chest to be in fact. _Fuck, this kid worked out._ Mickey checked himself – well, Ian – out in the mirror, his hands trailing over every piece of skin that reflected through the mirror.

 

“What. The. Fuck.” He pointedly states to himself, blinking over and over until the whole vision disappeared and he would wake up in his own room in his _own_ skin.

 

Its weird. Like really fucking weird. How the hell did he manage to get inside of Ian's body – like fully, in the skin, on the bone, seeing through his eyes. He grabs his face once more, trying to work it out. As much as he liked the look of Ian's body, maybe even the _feel,_ he wasn't living like this. This couldn't be real.

 

Then he feels it. He knows it because it happens _every_ morning. A little bit of morning glory always occurred after sleeping – even if you try and avoid it. It takes him a while to reach into the boxer shorts – _you're not gay –_ the thing was, he really fucking was when a hot-fucking-ginger got into the mix.

 

Slipping his hands in, he pulls out the hard-rock cock from inside of the fabric. It was nothing that he expected. _More_ than he expected. His eyes widen as the long length hit the air. His hair sure matched the drapes.

 

“Well, Hello Ian Gallagher.”

 

 

 

                                                                                                                         ----------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

Mickey's chucked on some clothes – one's that look a little presentable. Okay, maybe he skipped the usual Gallagher attire and slipped on a pair of sweats and a black-tank, and okay, maybe he did steal that gold chain from Ian's kid brother. Ian Gallagher needed more thug anyway. 

 

After raiding the empty fridge, he rushes out of the door. The air hits him and even that feels different. Most likely because he's breathing through the wrong nostrils but still, it was really fucking weird and he really wanted his body back.

 

“Hey, Ian!” It's that fucking towel-head from the shop, what the hell did he want? He runs over to where Mickey is standing on the porch steps, his face looking a little hopeful.

 

“What the fuck you want?” Mickey calls out, only just hearing Ian's voice come out of his mouth. Some-how it sounded disjointed but it fit in all manners.

 

The towel-head shifts on the spot, rubbing a hand through his hair. “I came to say-”

 

A voice interrupts, it takes Mickey a second to recognize that its his. “Hey, fucking towel-head.” Mickey turns and sees himself run across the street. _What the fuck._ Firstly; was he actually that fucking small? Secondly; if he was in Ian's body, did that mean Ian was in his?

 

“Mickey.” Towel-head replies, shaking a little on the spot. Mickey can't help but smirk and watch, he never got a front-row seat in seeing himself.

 

“Get the fuck out of here.” He sees himself – well, Ian scream towards him, waving his hands in an act of intimidation but it made Mickey cringe, nevertheless.

 

As Kasi – or whatever his fucking name was – stormed off down the street, scared, Mickey takes a moment to look towards himself. The first thing to catch his eye was how modest he was fucking dressed. _Fucking Gallagher._ The next thing was that Ian was just holding himself the wrong way – Mickey was most likely doing the same thing, but he wasn't worried about that.

 

“Mickey?” Ian calls out, from inside Mickey's body, his walks over to the bottom of the steps, his plaid shirt clear-as-fucking day. Mickey nods, giving the kid reassurance, seeing his body know just made him want to get back into even more.

 

“What the fuck happened?!” They both shouted in union.

 

Ian rubs a hand across his dark-hair. “Seriously – wait, what the fuck am I wearing?” He gestures a hand to what Mickey has sprawled all over his body. “I'm not some high-class thug, what the fuck, Mickey.” He pulls against the chain that Mickey's wearing, groaning at the hideous fact of the situation.

 

“Fuck off, Gallagher. You've made me look like some fucking soccer mom, where did you even get _this? And,_ How the hell did you get out of my house without being beaten alive? _”_ He grips onto the green, plaid fabric, tugging against it. “Seriously, man. I want my own fucking body back. Do your voodoo shit.”

 

Because obviously, Ian was behind this.

 

“What voodoo shit, I fucking woke up in your bed. Your dad wasn't in, I mean, he must of given you a punch last night but, I thought we had fu-- oh, I don't know.” Ian grunts out, continuing to rub his hand through Mickey's old hair (that he really fucking missed right now). “When I said I wanted to be inside of you, I didn'tmean literally in your _skin.”_ Ian scoffs, shaking his head.

 

Mickey's dick could cry at the bluntness.

 

“Well then how the fuck did this happen, huh. Speak up genius.” Mickey snaps, wanting to pull at the itchy skin around him – even if a huge fucking dick was attached to it, that he wouldn't mind being inside of him.

 

Like really, he wouldn't mind.

 

Ian shrugs, confused as he was. “I don't know. Fuck.” He look around, scanning the area, he grabs Mickey's wrist and pulls him inside of the Gallagher house. “Right, what were we doing last time we saw each other?”

 

“What's that got to do with anything?”

 

“Everything.” Ian shouts over his shoulder as he rip through the cushion. Mickey isn't at all phased that he is checking his own ass out. Maybe Gallagher fit it better. “It has everything to do with it because something must of happened _then.”_

 

Groaning, Mickey wants to lie on the floor and just forget that his life could be this hard. “I don't fucking know, I've slept since then.” He knocks over something from the table, wondering around as the redhead – not so redhead – rummaged frantically around the house.

 

“Well, its sleeping that got us fucking here. So fucking think.” Ian yells, sounding more frustrated. Mickey never knew how fucking grumpy his voice actually was. Oh well, he liked it.

 

Ian finds a phone. Hopefully his. He checks through his contacts and texts to find anything that could help them, but it fell into the path of their luck for the day. “Right, we have nothing. If we can't remember what were fucking doing we literally have _nothing.”_

 

Mickey's mind flashes back. “I beat your fucking ass.”

 

“What?”

 

“I said.” Mickey starts, shaking his head in annoyance. “I beat your fucking ass, at that dumb-ass gallery.” Mickey bet it was that statue – the evil looking, dick statue that no-one looked at but him and Ian. In fact, he _knew_ it was that statue, it had been giving him the eyes all day.

 

“You did not beat me up.” Ian acts defensive, pulling off the plaid shirt he had been wearing over Mickey's body, and chucking it over the arm of the sofa. “The Gallery, what were we looking at … that fucking _thing,_ what was it?”

 

Rolling his eyes, Mickey answers. “The dick statue, fucking hell, you lost your memory as-well as your fucking body.” He chucks a empty lighter in Ian's direction, hitting him straight on the back. Mickey knows he needs to work out more – he feels stronger and he doesn't like it. He doesn't like the competition.

 

“Well, apparently I have.” Ian snarls, pushing the older boy towards the door. “This is so fucking weird.” He comments, close to Mickey's ear.

 

They both step outside and look around cautiously. It wasn't every-day that the two would just hang out together and walk the streets of the neighbourhood. Ian takes the first step, literally dragging Mickey down with him. Mickey couldn't grasp it – he was literally watching himself walk before him. Did he look like that, really?

 

Ian's further a head, he turns smirking. “I jerked your dick off this morning.”

  

Mickey chokes on his spit – well, maybe Ian's – the dick was always so fucking blunt and he never knew how to react to it. Gallagher would definitely know that he jerked him off just an hour before – because he'll feel it all again when shit got back to normal.

 

                                                                                                                             ------------------------------------------------------

 

“What the fuck do we do now, Gallagher?” Mickey asks, still trying to get comfortable in the skin he had been placed in. Ian just felt _weird._

 

Ian abruptly turns around, scoffing. “You can't call me that, you are in my body.” He flaps his hands against his sides. The sound echoing through the empty walls of the gallery. If Mickey was thinking straight, Ian was actually _enjoying_ this.

  

“Well, I didn't fucking want to be here did I.”

  

They reach the statue, the dick-shape having no change since the previous day. Mickey wished it had gone a little brighter, maybe a little more detailed. But the thing about statues was that they just stayed fucking still, and right now – Ian wasn't moving and it was pissing him off.

  

“You gonna move or what?” Mickey grunts, the effect hardly the same when his voice was slightly higher and less dark.

 

Ian laughs, like its fucking _funny,_ he turns to Mickey. “Shut the fuck up before I ram my boot down your throat.” He imitates Mickey's words, giggling behind them. Even if he was inside Mickey's body, the laugh was still _his._

 

“Shut the hell up and get on with getting back into our own fucking bodies.” Mickey barges in-front, looking up at the statue that apparently caused wonders and liked to switch people into annoying bodies that fucking _itched_ like hell.

 

“How do we do it, just ask it nicely or what?” Ian asks, confused. Mickey finally gets to the see the eyebrow raise Mandy always bangs on about.

  

Mickey shrugs, the situation is fucked as it is. “I don't know. Maybe...-” He thinks back to the fight, back the point where everything went tits up and the old fuck came barging through. The point where he felt utterly and literally sick when he walked out. “Maybe we gotta show the fucker that, I don't know, that we fucking like each-other or something?”

  

“That's dumb.”

 

“You're fucking dumb.” Mickey nudges him back.

 

Ian snorts, finding it weird having to look up at himself. Mickey feels fucking great – for once he was taller than some-one, in this case _himself._ Ian smirks, cracking his knuckles. “I thought that you'd get better come-backs being in my body but _fuck_ they got worse.”

  

Mickey was five seconds from punching himself. He had never thought he'd think that in his life.

  

“Can we just get on with this shit, your fucking skin is itchy.” He whines, scratching against the pale skin of his arm. Ian eyes him, suspiciously, secretly loving the torture.

  

Ian huffs, “I never knew how fucking hot I was.” He steps back, checking himself out – literally – Mickey was just behind the wheel, feeling more awkward than he should. The vain fucker.

 

Mickey scrunches his brow up, flipping him off. “Stop being a fucking asshole and start saying whatever shit we've got to say.” He waves towards the statue, trying not to look into the eyes of the stone creature just at the bottom of its feet.

  

“Like what.” Ian deadened.

 

“I don't know.” Mickey runs a hand through Ian's hair – it felt nicer than he expected. “Say shit you fucking like about me.” God, this would be fun. No one fucking liked him so this list wasn't going to be exciting.

 

Ian licks the corner of his mouth. Mickey found it weird how Ian made it look so good on himself. “That list is going to be short.”

 

“Fuck off.” Mickey flips him off, gritting his teeth. Ian was still annoying as fuck.

 

“Right.” Ian surrenders, hand aimlessly touching against Mickey's chest. “I _like_ … the way Mickey beats the shit out of anything that pisses him off.”

  

Mickey's stomach twists. “You like that?”

  

Ian nods, tutting his lips to carry on the list. “I like the way Mickey bites his bottom lip, usually when he's nervous but I think its pretty fucking hot.” Mickey gazes to the side. “I like the way his lip curls up when someone talks about his sister, because he's proud of her. I _also_ like the way he walks, those bowed legs are something I would like wrapped around my neck.”

  

Mickey felt his cock – Ian's cock – stir in his pants. God damn fucking Gallagher.

  

“I like the way he sneaks glances at me and thinks I don't know, when _really_ I'm trying not to look at him, too.” Ian admits openly. “See, the thing about Mickey Milkovich is that he has this really hard outer shell, that fuck – no one should mess with -, but inside he's like a ball of goo, if you're in that inner circle. You're it. You're fucking safe.” Ian mumbles after that but Mickey can't hear him over his thoughts invading his mind.

  

How did Gallagher know him so well when he didn't know him at all?

  

“Mickey-”

 

“What?”

 

Ian nearly knocks his eyes off his face, the roll is that strong. “It's your turn. You've gotta say what you like about me, if there is anything.” His words roll off his tongue, a slight tinge of exhaustion in his voice.

 

Mickey looks over, guilty, did Gallagher seriously want him to list off those things? Mickey had always been awkward. “I like Gallagher _but_ I like his gigantic, scary fucking dick more.” He gives off an innocent smile – because sure, he really fucking liked that dick.

  

“Well, that is my best quality.” Ian agrees.

 

Slapping the back of his head, Mickey cracks his neck. It was still fucking weird that he can to lean down a little just to hit someone's head. “I haven't fucking finished.” He gives Ian an expression of warning. “I _like_ but I fucking hate Gallagher's stupid-ass jokes, his idiotic lob-sided smile that really fucking irritating. I like the way he thinks he sinks into the cracks when really he sticks out like a sore thumb.”

 

Ian pouts, eyes widened.

 

“Sorry man, you'll always be fucking noticed with that hair.” He pats his own head, emphasising his own point. “Anyway, I ain't a gonna be a bitch, but Gallagher is literally the only person I've punched for listing rules of fucking _team work._ Fucking dork.” Why was he even saying this shit? Was it the skin? Was it brushing off on his speech?

  

After he quietens, Ian sighs. “That was nice.”

  

“It ain't for you, its for him.” Mickey points to the unmoved statue still looking down on them. Mickey sniggered, knowing that even though Ian was really enjoying this, he fucking hated being smaller than him.

 

“ _Him_ , its a fucking dick?” Ian snaps, suddenly, scratching the back of his neck.

 

“So are you, now give me my fucking body back!” Mickey yells, getting frustrated with the fact that he was talking to himself. Ian should have his own body, not _his,_ he wanted his own shitty tattoo's, his own small body, okay – maybe, he wanted to keep the tall thing.

  

Ian knocks against the statue. “He isn't doing anything.”

 

“That's because he's a fucking statue, asswipe. You want him to sing a fucking song?” Mickey pivots on his foot, making sure the coast was clear, if anyone saw them there it would look fucking weird that they were talking to some dick-shaped thing, even _knocking_ it.

 

“I have an idea.” Ian pokes his finger into Mickey's side.

 

Mickey nods manically, “Yeah, me too. Why don't I peel your skin off and then you can climb back in, you know?” He knows he sounds crazy, but this was _crazy._ He was in Ian Gallagher's body for fuck sakes.

  

Ian hits his shoulder, harshly. “No, you prick. I have a _better_ idea.”

 

“Tell me then.” Mickey pleads, impatiently.

 

“Why don't we kiss.” Ian suggests, lips twitching at the side. “You know, show the _thing_ that we actually like each-other.”

 

Mickey knows this was what Ian had been leading too. As much as it sounded tempting, he wasn't kissing _himself._ Ian must had forgotten that they weren't in their actual bodies, and that kissing each other would one: be fucking gay, and two: be kissing themselves and that is something Mickey never wanted to do.  He had never thought of it for that matter.

 

Mickey was not kissing Gallagher. No fucking way. Once he gets his body back he's going to go coked out, drink until his life was just a blip in the mind, probably shoot a couple of birds in the ass. One thing he wasn't going to do was kiss Ian fucking-

  

Ian grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him towards himself. Mickey's eyes widen and he can't yet feel anything. Everything is numb. His lips are numb, until they touch his own. Despite the fact he _knew_ his own lips, they felt different, like they belonged to someone else. Maybe when the switch happened they didn't change lips?

 

The feeling in his stomach is new, like a group of butterflies were swarming through his body, trying to get out. Mickey's hand hesitantly grips onto the dark-strands that hit over Ian's head. Ian tasted like pancakes and docked out cigarettes, his scent just at home. Mickey feels weird having to bend down a little – the feeling nice but just not _him –_ at this point he wanted Ian to grab him by the hips, pin him against the wall, but he felt he needed to be smaller for that. He wanted Ian to over power him.

  

Then Ian pulls away. Maybe he realised how fucking weird it was kissing himself.

 

“God, I never knew kissing _me_ would be so good.” Ian mumbles, laughing to himself.     Okay, maybe not.

  

Mickey wipes his lips, wanting to taste them lips again. Was that weird? “Fuck you.” He blurts, a smile nearly tugging on his lips. Ian Gallagher sure did have a good set of lips.

  

They both look down towards their clothes, then back up to the statue, then exchanged glances between them. Nothing had changed. The statue was still looking down on them like some fucking judgement day master. Maybe they both did bad shit and they were paying their debts.

  

Wait, they _had_ done bad things and were paying their debts.

  

“Fuck this. I'm going home.” Mickey grunts, impatiently, he grabs onto the collar of Ian's coat dragging him with him. He could deal with being Gallagher for one more night.

 

 

 

                                                                    ------------------------------------------------------------

  

Mickey woke up to a sweat forming on his back, it was hot, it was annoying and it was really fucking suffocating. Prying his eyes open, he turns against the sheets, he sees his own legs and would even think to jump up in victory. His legs were small, they were fucking _small._ For once he had been happy to say that because he missed them like hell. He lifts the covers hiding his lower body, smirking at the familiar dick. He missed Gallagher's, but fuck – this was _his,_ and it was all he really had.

  

“I missed you buddy.” Mickey grumbles, tapping the blanket that now covered it.

  

Then he feels a shift, a huff of a breath, and muffled giggle.

  

“Are you talking to your dick?” Ian called out from beside him. Mickey turns, in shock, forgetting the previous nights activities before they sprung to mind.

 

Kissing....more kissing...pinning...grabbing...tugging...more kissing...fucking...breaking the headboard...more fucking...

  

Mickey finally sees Ian sprawled out next to him, a head full of red-hair sprawled out against the pillow. The kid probably didn't know they had gone back to normal, so Mickey strokes the hair out of Ian's sleepy face.

  

He'd never been more happier to see Ian Gallagher, in his _own_ body, sprawled against his sheets.

                                               .

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry haven't posted in a while, college fucking sucks!! -


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